AFTER 
TOMORROW 

"THECReeM  CARNATION^ 


n^^^v.-' 


g  VIOLET  S 

^series/* 


'COME  BACK,"  SHE  SAID."     Page  s^^. 


AFTER  TO-MORROW 


BY 
THE   AUTHOR    OF 

THE   GREEN   CARNATION 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW    YORK 
THE  MERRIAM   COMPANY 

67  Fifth  Avenue 


Copyright,  1895,  by 
THE  MERRIAM    COMPANY 


LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

"Come  back,"  she  said Frontispiece 

"To-day  I  asked  Mrs.  Blair  to   marry 

me," 19 

They  sat  down  by  the  tiny  table, 35 

"This  may  be  new,  but  it  is  not  love,"  46 
"Good-by.     May  I  tell  our  secret  to — 

the  '  Morning  Post'  ?  " 61 


MERRIAM'S 

VIOLET    SERIES. 


Illustrated,  Square  32mo,  Cloth,  40c. 


No.  6 

I.— A  Man  and  His  Mode!. 

By  Anthoxy  Hope. 
II. — The  Body-Snatcher. 

By  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 
III. — The  Silence  of  the  Maharajah. 

By  Marie  Corelli. 
IV. — Some  Good  Intentions  and  a  Blunder, 
V. — After  To-Morrow. 

By  T.HE  Author  of  "The  Green  Carnation." 
VI.— The  Snowball. 

By  Stanley  J.  Wevman. 


OTHER  VOLUMES  IX  PREPARATION. 


For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or   -will  be  sent  post-paid 
upon  receipt  o/ price  by 

THE  MERRIAM  COMPANY 

Publishers  and  Booksellets 
67  FIFTH  AVENUE  NEW  YORK 


AFTER   TO-MORROW. 


CHAPTER  I. 

In  his  gilded  cage,  that  hung  be- 
tween pale-green  curtains  over  the  win- 
dow-boxes that  were  full  of  white 
daisies,  the  canary  chirped  with  a  des- 
ultory vivacity.  That  was  the  only 
near  sound  that  broke  the  silence  in  the 
drawing-room  of  No.  loo  Mill  Street, 
Knightsbridge,  in  which  a  man  and 
woman  stood  facing  one  another. 
Away  beyond  this  twittering  voice 
sang  in  the  London  streets  the  muffled 
voice  of  the  season.     The  time  was  late 


afternoon,  and  rays  of  mellow  light 
slanted  into  the  pretty  room,  and 
touched  its  crowd  of  inanimate  occu- 
pants with  a  radiance  in  which  the 
motes  danced  merrily.  The  china  faces 
of  two  goblins  on  the  mantelpiece 
glowed  with  a  grotesque  meaning,  and 
their  ^^ellow  smiles  seemed  to  call  aloud 
on  mirth ;  but  the  faces  of  the  man  and 
woman  were  pale,  and  their  lips  trem- 
bled and  did  not  smile. 

She  was  tall,  dark,  and  passionate- 
looking,  perhaps  twenty-eight  or  thirty. 
He  was  a  few  years  older,  a  man  so 
steadfast  in  expression  that  silly  peo- 
ple, who  spring  at  exaggeration  as  saints 
spring  at  heaven,  called  him  stem,  and 
even  said  he  looked  forbidding — at 
balls. 


At  last  the  song  of  the  canary  was 
broken  upon  by  a  voice.  Sir  Hugh 
Blake  spoke  very  quietly.  "  Why  not?" 
he  said. 

"I  don't  think  I  can  tell  you,"  Mrs. 
Blair  answered,  with  an  obvious  effort. 

"  You  prefer  to  refuse  me  without 
giving  a  reason?" 

"  I  have  a  right  to,"  she  said. 

"  I  don't  question  it.  You  cannot  ex- 
pect me  to  say  more  than  that." 

He  took  up  his  hat,  which  lay  on  a 
chair,  and  smoothed  it  mechanically 
with  his  coat-sleeve.  The  action  seemed 
to  pierce  her  like  a  knife,  for  she  started 
and  half  extended  her  hand.  "  Don't!" 
she  exclaimed.  "  At  least  wait  one 
moment.  So  you  belong  to  the  second 
class  of  men?" 


"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  Men  are  divided  into  two  classes— 
those  who  refuse  to  be  refused,  and 
those  who  accept.  But  don't  be  too — 
too  swift  in  your  acceptance.  After  all, 
a  refusal  is  not  exactly  a  bank-note." 

She  tried  to  smile. 

"  But  I  am  exactly  a  beggar,"  he  an- 
swered, still  keeping  the  hat  in  his 
hand.  "  And  if  you  have  nothing  to 
give  me,  I  may  as  well  go." 

"  And  spend  the  rest  of  your  life  in 
sweeping  the  old  crossing?" 

"  And  spend  the  rest  of  my  life  as  I 
can,"  he  said.  "  That  need  not  concern 
3'ou." 

"  A  woman  must  be  all  to  a  man  or 
nothing? " 

"  You  must  be  all  to  me  or  nothing." 


II 


She  sat  down  in  an  armchair  in  that 
part  of  the  room  that  was  in  shadow. 
She  always  sat  instinctively  in  shadow 
when  she  wanted  to  think. 

"  Well?  "  Sir  Hugh  said.  "  What  are 
you  thinking?" 

She  glanced  up  at  him.  "  That  you 
don't  look  much  like  a  beggar,"  she  said. 

"  It  is  possible  to  feel  tattered  in  a 
frock-coat  and  patent  leather  boots,"  he 
answered.  "  Good-by.  I  am  going 
back  to  my  crossing."  And  he  moved 
toward  the  door. 

"  No,  stop ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  Before 
you  go,  tell  me  one  thing." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Will  you  ever  ask  me  to  marry  you 
again?" 

He  looked  hard   into   her  eyes.     "  I 


shall  always  want  to,  but  I  shall  never 
do  it,"  he  said  slowly. 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  told  me  that. 
We  women  depend  so  much  on  a  repe- 
tition of  the  offence  when  we  blame  a 
man  for  saying  he  loves  us,  and  ask  him 
not  to  do  it  again.  If  you  really  mean 
only  to  propose  once,  I  must  reconsider 
my  position." 

She  was  laughing,  but  the  tears  stood 
in  her  eyes. 

"  Why  do  you  want  to  make  this 
moment  a  farcical  one?"  he  asked 
rather  bitterly. 

"Oh,  Hugh!"  she  answered,  "don't 
you  see?  Because  it  is  really — really 
so  tragic.  I  only  try  to  do  for  this 
moment  what  we  all  try  to  do  for 
life." 


13 


"  Then  you  love  me?  "  he  said,  moving 
a  step  forward. 

"  I  never  denied  that,"  she  replied. 
"  I  might  as  well  deny  that  I  am  a 
woman." 

He  held  out  his  arms.  "  Eve — then 
I  shall  never  go  back  to  the  crossing." 

But  she  drew  back.  "  Go — go  there 
till  to-morrow!  To-morrow  afternoon 
I  will  see  you ;  and  if  you  love  me  after 
that •' 

"Yes?" 

She  turned  away  and  pressed  the 
bell.  "  Good-by,"  she  said.  Her  voice 
sounded  strange  to  him. 

He  came  nearer  and  touched  her 
hand,  but  she  drew  it  away. 

"  You  may  kiss  me,"  she  said. 

"Eve!" 


14 


"  After  to-morrow." 

The  footman  came  in  answer  to  the 
bell.     Mrs.    Blair  did  not  turn   round. 

"  I  only  rang  for  you  to  open  the  door 
for  Sir  Hugh,"  she  said,  "  Good-by 
then,  Sir  Hugh.     Come  at  five." 

"  I  will,"  he  answered,  wondering. 

When  he  had  gone,  Mrs.  Blair  sat 
down  in  a  chair  and  took  up  a  French 
novel.  It  was  by  Gyp.  She  tried  to 
read  it,  with  tears  running  over  her 
cheeks.     But  at  last  she  laid  it  down. 

"After  to-morrow,"  she  murmured. 
"  Ah,  why — why  does  a  woman  ever 
love  twice?"    And  then  she  sobbed. 

But  the  canary  sang,  and  the  motes 
danced  merrily  in  the  sunbeams.  And 
on  the  table  where  she  had  put  it  down 
lay  Le  Mariage  de  Chiffon. 


CHAPTER   II. 

That  evening  when  Sir  Hugh  Blake 
came  back  to  his  rooms  in  Jermym 
Street  after  dining  out,  he  found  a 
large  man  sprawling  in  one  of  his 
saddle-backed  chairs,  puffing  vigorously 
at  a  pipe  that  looked  worn  with  long 
and  faithful  service.  The  man  took  the 
pipe  out  of  his  mouth  and  sprang  up. 

"Hullo,  Blake!"  he  cried.  "  D'you 
recognize  the  tobacco  an'  me?" 

Hugh  gracped  his  hand  warmly. 
"  Rather,"  he  said.  "  Neither  is  changed. 
At  least — h'm — I  think  you  both  seem 
a  bit  stronger  even  than  usual.  Who 
would    have  thought  of    seeing    you, 


i6 


Manning?  I  did  not  know  you  were  in 
Europe." 

"  I  come  from  Asia.  I  thought  I 
should  like  to  hear  Calve  before  the 
end  of  the  season.  And  it  was  getting 
sultry  out  there.     So  here  I  am." 

"  And  were  those  your  only  reasons? " 

"  Give  me  a  brandy  and  soda,"  said 
the  other. 

Blake  did  as  he  was  bid,  lit  a  cigar, 
and  sat  down,  stretching  out  his  long 
legs.  The  other  man  took  a  pull  at  his 
glass,  and  spoke  again. 

"I  am  very  fond  of  music,"  he  said; 
"  and  Calve  sings  very  well !" 

"Ah!" 

"Look  here,  Blake,"  Manning  broke 
out  suddenly,  "  you  are  right — I  had  an- 
other reason.      Kipling  says  that  those 


17 


who  have  heard  the  East  a-calling 
never  heed  any  other  voice.  He's 
wrong,  though.  The  West  has  been 
calling  me,  or  at  least  a  voice  in  the 
West,  and  I  have  resisted  it  for  a  deuce 
of  a  time.  But  at  last  it  became  im- 
perative." 

"A  woman's  voice,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes." 

"  Tell  me  what  is  its  timbre,  if  you  care 
to." 

"I  will.  You're  an  old  friend,  and  I 
can  talk  to  3^ou.  But  you  tell  me  one 
thing  first:  Is  a  man  really  a  fool  to 
marry  a  woman  with  a  past?" 

"  You  are  going  to?" 

"  I  have  tried  not  to.  I  have  been 
trying  not  to  for  three  years.  Listen ! 
When  I  was  travelling  in  Japan  I  met 


i8 


her.  She  was  with  an  American  called 
Blair." 

"What!" 

"  You  knew  him?" 

"  No !  It's  all  right,  I  was  surprised, 
because  at  the  moment  I  was  thinking 
of  that  very  name." 

"  Oh !  Well,  she  passed  as  Mrs.  Blair; 
but,  somehow,  it  got  out  that  she  was 
something  else.  The  usual  story,  you 
know.  People  fought  shy  of  her ;  but 
I  don't  think  she  cared  much.  Blair 
was  devoted  to  her,  and  she  loved  him, 
and  was  as  true  to  him  as  any  wife 
could  have  been.  Then  the  tragedy 
came." 

"  What  was  it?" 

"  Blair  died  suddenly  in  Tokio  of 
typhoid.     She  nursed  him  to  the  end. 


'TO-DAY  I  ASKED  MRS.   BLAIR  TO  MARRY  ME- 
Page  28. 


And  when  the  end  came  her  situation 
was  awful,  so  lonely  and  deserted. 
There  wasn't  a  woman  in  the  hotel  who 
would  be  her  friend ;  so  I  tried  to  come 
to  the  rescue,  arranged  her  affairs,  saw 
about  the  funeral,  and  did  what  I  could. 
She  was  well  off ;  Blair  left  her  nearly 
all  his  money.  He  would  have  married 
her,  only  he  had  a  wife  alive  some- 
where." 

"  And  you  fell  in  love  with  her,  of 
course?" 

"  That  was  the  sort  of  thing.  If  you 
knew  her,  you  would  not  wonder  at  it. 
She  was  not  a  bad  woman.  Blair  had 
been  the  only  one.  She  loved  him  too 
much ;  that  was  all.  She  came  to  Eu- 
rope and  lived  in  Paris  for  a  time,  keep- 
ing the  name  of  Mrs.  Blair.     I  used  to 


22 


see  her  sometimes,  but  I  never  said 
anything.  Yon  see,  there  was  her  past. 
In  fact,  I  have  been  fighting  against 
her  for  three  years.  I  went  to  India  to 
get  cured,  but  it  was  no  good.  And 
now,  here  I  am." 

"  And  she  is  in  Paris?" 

"No,  in  London  at  present;  but  I 
didn't  know  her  address  till  to-day.  I 
think  she  had  her  doubts  of  me,  and 
meant  to  give  me  the  slip." 

"  How  did  you  find  it  out?" 

"  Quite  by  chance.  I  was  walking 
in  Mill  Street,  Knightsbridge,  and  saw 
her  pass  in  a  victoria." 

Blake  got  up  suddenly  and  went  over 
to  the  spirit-stand.  "In  Mill  Street?" 
he  said. 

"  Yes.     The  carriage  stopped  at  No. 


23 


loo.  She  went  in.  A  footman  came 
out  and  carried  in  her  rug.  Ergo,  she 
lives  there." 

"  How  hot  it  is !"  said  Blake  in  a  hard 
voice.  He  threw  up  one  of  the  win- 
dows and  leaned  out.  He  felt  as  if  he 
were  choking.  A  little  way  down  the 
street  a  half-tipsy  Guardsman  was 
reeling  along,  singing  his  own  private 
version  of  "  Tommy  Atkins."  He  nar- 
rowly avoided  a  lamp-post  by  an  abrupt 
lurch,  which  took  him  into  the  gutter. 
Blake  heard  some  one  laugh.  It  was 
himself. 

"  Well,  old  chap,"  said  Manning,  who 
had  come  up  behind  him,  "  what  would 
you  advise  me  to  do?  I'm  in  a  fix.  I'm 
in  love  with  Eve — that's  her  name.  I 
can't  live  without  her  happily,  and  yet 


24 


I  hate  to  marry  a  woman  with  a — well, 
you  know  how  it  is." 

Blake  drew  himself  back  into  the 
room  and  faced  round.  "  Does  she  love 
you?"  he  asked,  and  tUere  was  a  curious 
change  in  his  manner  toward  his  friend. 

"  I  don't  know  that  she  does,"  Man- 
ning said,  rather  uncomfortably.  "  But 
that  would  come  right.  She  would 
marry  me,  naturally." 

"Why?" 

"  Well,  I  mean  the  position.  Lady 
Herbert  Manning  could  go  where  Mrs. 
Blair  could  not,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing." 

"  The  only  question  is  whether  you 
can  bring  3''ourself  to  ask  her?" 

"  My  dear  chap,  you  don't  put  it  too 
pleasantly." 


25 


"  It's  the  fact,  though." 

Lord  Herbert  hesitated.  Then  he 
said  dubiously,  "  I  suppose  so." 

Blake  lit  another  cigar  and  sat  down 
again.  His  face  was  very  white. 
"  You're  rather  conventional,  Manning," 
he  said  presently. 

"  Conventional !     Why? " 

"  You  think  her — this  Mrs.  Blair  — a 
good  woman.  Isn't  that  enough  for 
you?" 

"  But,  besides  Eve  and  myself,  there 
is  a  third  person  in  the  situation." 

"  How  on  earth  did  you  find  out  that? 
exclaimed  Blake. 

The  other  looked  surprised.  "  How 
did  I  find  out?     I  don't  understand  you." 

Blake  recollected  himself.  He  had 
made  the  common  mistake  of  fancying 


26 


another  might  know  a  thing  because  he 
knew  it. 

"  Who  is  this  third  person?"  he  said. 

"  Society." 

"Ah!  I  said  you  were  conventional." 

*'  Every  sensible  man  and  woman  is." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  agree.  But  the 
third  person  does  certainly  complicate 
the  situation.  What  are  you  going  to 
do,  then?" 

Lord  Herbert  put  down  his  pipe.  It 
was  not  smoked  out.  "  That's  what  I 
want  to  know,"  he  answered. 

"  Of  course  there's  the  one  way — of 
being  unconventional.  Then  there's 
the  way  of  being  conventional  but  un- 
happy.    Is  there  any  alternative?" 

Lord  Herbert  hesitated  obviously, 
but   at   length   he   said :    "  There  is,  of 


27 


co-urse ;  but  Mrs.  Blair  is  a  curious  sort 

of  woman.     I  don't  quite  know " 

He   paused,    looking    at    his   friend. 

Blake's  face  was  drawn  and  fierce. 
"What's    the    row?"     Lord   Herbert 

asked. 

"Nothing;    only   I   shouldn't  advise 

you    to    try    the    alternative.      That's 

all." 

"  Blake,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Just  this,"  replied  the  other,  "that 

I  know  Mrs.  Blair ;  that  I  agree  with  you 

about  her  character " 

"  You  know  her?  That's  odd !" 
"  I  have  known  her  for  a  3"ear." 
They  looked  each  other  in  the  eyes 

while   a   minute   passed.      Then   Lord 

Herbert  said  slowly,  "  I  understand." 
"  What?" 


28 


"  That  I  have  come  to  the  wrong  man 
for  advice." 

There  was  a  silence,  broken  only  by 
the  ticking  of  a  clock  and  the  uneasy 
movements  of  Blake's  fox-terrier,  which 
was  lying  before  the  empty  grate  and 
dreaming  of  departed  fires. 

At  last  Blake  said :  "  To-day  I  asked 
Mrs.  Blair  to  marry  me." 

The  other  started  perceptibly. 
"Knowing  what  I  have  told  you?"  he 
asked. 

"  Not  knowing  it." 

"What — did  she  say?" 

"  Nothing.  I  am  to  see  her  to-mor- 
row." 

Lord  Herbert  glanced  at  him  furtively. 
"  I  suppose  you  will  not  go — now?"  he 
said. 


29 


"Yes,  Manning,  I  shall,"  Blake  an- 
swered. 

"  Well,"  the  other  man  continued, 
looking  at  his  watch  and  yawning,  "  I 
must  be  going.  It's  late.  Glad  to 
have  seen  you,  Blake.  I  am  to  be  found 
at  4  St.  James's  Place.  Thanks;  yes,  I 
will  have  my  coat  on.  My  pipe — oh! 
here  it  is.     Good-night." 

The  door  closed,  and  Blake  was  left 
alone. 

"  Will  she  tell  me  to-morrow,  or  will 
she  be  silent?"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  That  depends  on  one  thing:  Has  love 
of  truth  the  largest  half  of  her  heart,  or 
love  of  me?" 

He  sighed — at  the  conventionality  of 
the  world  perhaps. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  I  AM  not  at  home  to  any  one  except 
Sir  Hugh  Blake,"  Mrs.  Blair  said  to  the 
footman.     "  You  understand?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

He  went  out  softly  and  closed  the 
door. 

The  English  summer  had  gone  back 
upon  its  steps  that  afternoon  and  re- 
membered the  duty  it  owed  to  its  old- 
time  reputation.  The  canary,  a  puffed- 
out  ball  of  ragged-looking  feathers  in 
its  cage,  seemed  listening  with  a  de- 
pressed attention  to  the  beat  of  the 
cold  rain  against  the  window.  The 
daisies,  in  their  boxes,  dripped  and 
30 


31 


nodded  in  the  wind.  There  was  a  dark- 
ness in  the  pretty  room,  and  the  smile 
of  the  china  goblins  was  no  longer 
yellow.  Like  many  people  who  are  not 
made  of  china,  they  depended  upon 
adventitious  circumstances  for  much  of 
their  outward  show.  When  they  were 
not  gilded  there  was  a  good  deal  of  the 
pill  apparent  in  their  nature. 

Mrs.  Blair  was  trying  not  to  be  rest- 
less. She  was  very  pale  and  her  dark 
eyes  gleamed  with  an  almost  tragic  fire, 
but  she  sat  down  firmly  on  the  white 
sofa  and  read  Gyp,  as  Carmen  may 
have  read  her  doom  in  the  cards.  One 
by  one  the  pages  were  turned.  One  by 
one  the  epigrams  were  made  the  prop- 
erty of  another  mind.  But  through 
all  the  lightness  and  humor  of  the  story 


32 


there  crept  like  a  little  snake  a  sentence 
that  Gyp  had  not  written. 

"Can  I  tell  him?" 

And  no  answer  came  to  that  question. 
When  the  doorbell  at  last  rang,  Mrs. 
Blair  laid  down  her  novel  carefully, 
and  mechanically  stood  up.  A  change 
of  attitude  was  necessary  to  her. 

Sir  Hugh  came  in,  and  was  followed 
by  tea.  They  sat  down  by  the  tiny 
table  and  discussed  French  literature. 
Flaubert  and  Daudet  go  as  well  with  tea 
as  Fielding  and  Smollett  go  with  sup- 
per. Somehow  Frangois  Coppee  was 
not  mentioned.  Neither  Mrs.  Blair  nor 
Sir  Hugh  ever  took  sugar  with  their  tea. 

But,  when  the  cups  were  put  down, 
the  latter  drove  the  French  authors  in 
a  pack  out  of  the  conversation. 


33 


"  I  did  not  come  here  to  say  what  I 
can  say  to  every  woman  I  meet  who 
understands  French,"  he  remarked. 

And  then  Mrs.  Blair  was  fully  face 
to  face  with  her  particular  guardian 
devil. 

"  No?"  she  said. 

She  did  not  try  to  postpone  the  mo- 
ment she  dreaded,  for  she  had  a  strong 
man  to  deal  with ;  and  being  a  strong 
woman  at  heart,  she  generally  held  out 
her  hand  to  the  inevitable. 

"  You  have  been  thinking? "  Blake 
went  on. 

"  Yes.  What  a  sad  occupation  that 
is  sometimes — like  knitting  or  listening 
to  church-bells  at  night!" 

"  Eve,  let  us  be  serious." 

"God  knows  I   am,"  she   answered. 


34 


"  But    modem   gravity   is    dressed    in 

flippancy.  No  feeling  must  go  quite 
naked." 

"  Don't  talk  like  that,"  he  said.  "  As 
there  is  a  nudity  in  art  that  may  be  beau- 
tiful, so  there  is  a  nudity  in  expression, 
in  words,  that  may  be  beautiful.  P^ve, 
I  have  come  to  hear  you  tell  me  some- 
thing. You  know  that."  He  glanced 
into  her  face  with  an  anxiety  that  she 
did  not  fully  understand.     Then  he  said : 

"Tell  it  me." 

"There  is — is  so  much  to  tell,"  she 
said. 

"  Yes,  3'es." 

"  He  does  not  understand,"  she 
thought. 

He  thought,  "  She  does  not  under 
stand." 


THEY  SAT  DOWN  BY  THE  TINY  TABLE.     Page  3? 


37 


"And  I  am  not  good  at  telling 
stories." 

"  Then  tell  me  the  truth." 

She  tried  to  smile,  but  she  was  trem- 
bling. "  Of  course.  Why  should  I  not? " 
She  hesitated,  and  then  added,  with  a 
forced  attempt  at  petulance :  "  But  there 
is  nothing  so  awkward  as  giving  people 
more  than  they  expect.     Is  there?" 

He  understood  her  question  despite 
its  apparent  inconsequence,  and  his 
heart  quickened  its  beating:  "  Give  me 
everything." 

"  I  suppose  I  should  be  doing  that  if 
I  gave  you  myself,"  she  said  nervously. 

"You  know  best,"  he  answered;  and 
for  a  moment  she  was  puzzled  by  not 
catching  the  atTirm alive  for  which  she 
had  angled. 


38 


"  Do  you  want  me  very,  very  much?" 
she  asked. 

"  So  much  that,  as  I  told  you  ^^ester- 
day,  I  could  not  ask  for  you  twice. 
Don't  you  understand?" 

"  Yes.  I  could  not  marry  a  man  who 
had  bothered  me  to  be  his  wife.  One 
might  as  well  be  scolded  into  virtue. 
You  want  me,  then,  Hugh,  and  I  want 
you.     But " 

Again  she  stopped,  with  sentences 
fluttering,  as  it  seemed,  on  the  very 
edges  of  her  lips.  Her  heart  was  at  such 
fearful  odds  with  her  conscience  that 
she  felt  as  if  he  must  hear  the  clashing 
of  the  swords.  And  he  did  hear  it. 
He  would  fain  have  cheered  on  both  the 
combatants.  Which  did  he  wish  should 
be  the  conqueror?    He  hardly  knew. 


39 


"Yes?"  he  said. 

"  It  is  always  so  difficult  to  finish  a 
sentence  that  begins  with  'but',"  she 
began ;  and  for  the  first  time  her  voice 
sounded  tremulous.  "  When  two  people 
want  each  other  very  much,  there  is 
always  something  that  ought  to  keep 
them  apart — at  least,  I  think  so.  God 
must  love  solitude ;  it  is  His  gift  to  so 
many."     There  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Why  should  we  keep  apart,  Eve?" 

"  Because  we  should  be  too  happy  to- 
gether, I  suppose." 

He  leaned  suddenly  forward  and  took 
both  her  hands  in  his.  "  How  cold  you 
are !"  he  said,  startled. 

The  words  seemed  to  brace  her  like 
a  sea-breeze. 

"  Hugh,"  she  said,  "  I  wish  to  tell  you 


40 


something.  There  is  a  'but'  in  the  sen- 
tence of  my  life." 

He  drew  her  closer  to  him,  with  a 
strange  impulse  to  be  nearer  the  soul 
that  was  about  to  prove  itself  as  noble 
as  he  desired.  But  that  very  act  pre- 
vented the  fulfilment  of  his  wish.  The 
touch  of  his  hands,  the  eagerness  of  his 
eyes,  gave  the  victory  to  her  heart. 
She  shut  the  lips  that  were  speaking, 
and  he  kissed  them.  Kisses  act  as  an 
opiate  on  a  woman's  conscience.  Only 
when  Eve  felt  his  lips  on  hers  did  she 
know  her  own  weakness.  Sir  Hugh, 
having  kissed  her,  waited  for  the  telling 
of  the  secret.  At  that  moment  he 
might  as  well  have  sat  down  and  waited 
for  the  millennium. 

"  What  is  it?"  he  said  at  last. 


41 


"  Nothing,"  she  answered,  "  nothing." 
She  spoke  the  word  with  a  hard  intona- 
tion. 

Hugh  held  her  close  in  his  arms,  with 
a  sort  of  strange  idea  that  to  do  so 
would  crush  his  disappointment.  She 
was  proving  her  love  by  her  silence. 
Why,  then,  did  he  wish  that  she  should 
speak?     At  last  she  said,  in  a  low  voice  : 

"  There  is  one  thing  you  ought  to 
know.  If  I  marry  you,  I  marry  you  a 
beggar.  I  shall  lose  my  fortune.  I  am 
not  obliged  to  lose  it,  but  I  mean  to 
give  it  up.     Don't  ask  me  why." 

He  had  no  need  to.  He  waited,  but 
she  was  silent.  So  that  was  all.  He 
kissed  her  again,  loosened  his  arms 
from  about  her,  and  stood  up. 

"  I  have  enough  for  both,"  he  said. 


42 


He  did  not  look  at  her,  and  she  could 
not  look  at  him. 

"  Are  you  going? "  she  said. 

"  Yes;  but  I  will  call  this  evening." 

He  was  at  the  door,  and  had  half- 
opened  it  when  he  turned  back,  moved 
by  a  passionate  impulse. 

"  Eve !"  he  cried,  and  his  eyes  seemed 
asking  her  for  something. 

"  Yes?"  she  said,  looking  away. 

There  was  a  silence.  Then  he  said 
"  Good-by !"    The  door  closed  upon  him. 

Mrs.  Blair  stood  for  a  moment  where 
he  had  left  her.  In  her  mind  she  was 
counting  the  seconds  that  must  elapse 
before  he  could  reach  the  street.  If  she 
could  be  untrue  to  herself  till  then,  she 
could  be  untrue  to  herself  forever. 
Would  he  walk  down  the  stairs  slowly 


43 


or  fast?  She  wanted  to  be  a  false 
woman  so  much,  so  very  much,  that  she 
clinched  her  hands  together.  The 
action  seemed  as  if  it  might  help  her  to 
keep  on  doing  wrong.  But  suddenly 
she  unclasped  her  hands,  darted  across 
the  room  to  the  door,  and  opened  it. 
She  listened,  and  heard  Hugh's  foot- 
steps in  the  hall.  He  picked  up  his 
umbrella,  and  unfolded  it  to  be  ready 
for  the  rain.  The  frou-frou  of  the  silk 
seemed  to  stir  her  to  action. 

"  Hugh!"  she  cried  in  a  broken  voice. 

He  turned  in  the  hall,  and  looked  up. 

"  Come  back,"  she  said. 

He  came  up  the  stairs  three  steps  at 
a  time. 

"  Hugh,"  she  said,  leaning  heavily  on 
the  balustrade,  and  looking  away,   "  1 


44 


have  a  secret  to  tell  you.  I  have  tried 
to  be  wicked  to-day,  but  somehow  I 
can't.     Listen  to  the  truth." 

"  I  need  not,"  he  answered.  "  I  know 
it  already." 

Then  she  looked  at  him,  and  drew  in 
her  breath :  "  You  know  it? " 

"  Yes." 

"  How  you  must  love  me !" 

There  was  a  ring  at  the  hall-door. 
The  footman  opened  it,  held  a  short 
parley  with  some  one  who  was  invisible, 
shut  the  door,  and  came  upstairs  with 
a  card. 

Mrs.  Blair  took  it,  and  read,  "  Lord 
Herbert  Manning." 

He  had  decided  to  be  unconventional 
too  late. 


;^.=  3M>. 


■THIS  MAY  BE  NEW,   BUT   IT   IS  NOT  LOVE. 

Page  65. 


THE    NEW    LOVE. 

BY 

The  Author  of  ''The  Green  Carnation. 


CHARACTERS. 

Mrs.  Delane,  a  young  widow,  age  28. 
Miss  Endsleigh,  her  friend,  age  42. 
Andrew  Leith,  Mrs.  Delane 's  lover,  age  30. 


SCENE   I. 


Drawing-room  in  Mrs.  Delane 's 
house,  No.  100  Jack  Street,  Mayfair. 
Time:  four  o'clock  on  a  winter's  after- 
noon.    Mrs.  Delane  and  Miss  Endsleigh. 

Mrs.  D. — You  don't  seem  to  have 
47 


48 


progressed  ver}^  much  since  we  last 
met,  Catherine,  but  I  suppose  one 
doesn't  catch  cold  if  one  stands  still  in 
the  country.  Now,  in  London  it  is 
different.  To  be  stationaiy  in  the 
midst  of  movement  would  be  to  show  a 
revolutionar}^  spirit,  wouldn't  it? 

Miss  E. — I  rather  like  standing  still, 
Maud.  One  can  see  the  view  so  much 
better  when  one  does  it. 

Mrs.  D. — I  prefer  doing  things  to 
looking  at  other  people  doing  them. 
The  philosopher  who  peered  through  a 
microscope  at  the  insects  tearing  each 
other  to  pieces  in  a  drop  of  water  must 
have  been  a  fearful  fossil.  Believe  me, 
lookers-on  see  least  of  the  game. 

Miss  E. — I  like  looking  on  at  the 
game    of   your  life,    dear,    and  I  see  a 


49 


great  many  of  the  moves.  When  I  am 
not  with  you  I  see  them  in  your  letters. 
You  are  a  good  correspondent.  You 
tell  me  such  a  lot  by  omission. 

Mrs.  D. — By  omission? 

Miss  E. — Yes.  You  leave  out  so 
much  that  there  is.  Most  women  put 
in  so  much  that  there  isn't. 

Mrs.  D. — Do  you  think  that  I  have 
left  out  anything  about — about  Mr. 
Leith? 

Miss  E. — Everything  almost;  but  so 
judiciously  that  I  know  all  about  him. 
He  has  a  black  mustache,  for  instance. 

Mrs.  D. — How  did  you  find  that  out? 

Miss  E. — By  your  telling  me,  when 
you  were  pretending  you  did  not  love 
him,  that  you  liked  a  man  to  have  a 
mustache    either     blond,     brown,     or 


50 


gray.  You  left  out  black.  Therefore, 
his  is  black. 

Mrs.  D. — Pretending  I  did  not  love 
him! 

Miss  E. — Well,  it  was  a  pretence. 
You  are  going  to  marry  him,  I  suppose? 

Mrs.  D. — If  he  asks  me. 

Miss  E. — I  thought  he  was  coming 
this  afternoon  on  purpose? 

Mrs.  D. — He  is  coming;  but  it  seems 
absurd  to  speak  of  his  doing  anything 
on  purpose.  He  is  very  modern,  you 
know%  Catherine;  and  the  new  love  is 
not  the  same  as  the  old,  although  you 
seem  to  fancy  so. 

Miss  E. — What  is  the  difference  be- 
tween them? 

Mrs.  D. — I  don't  know  much  about 
the  old  love,  but  I  believe  it  was  very 


51 


definite.  I  judge  so  from  middle-aged 
romances  and  gray-haired  novels  that  I 
read  from  time  to  time.  People  said, 
"  I  worship  you,  Miss  or  Mrs.  So-and- 
so,"  and  proceeded  to  state  the  amount 
of  their  income.  Men  don't  state  the 
amount  of  their  income  now. 

Miss  E. — Often  because  they  have  no 
income. 

Mrs.  D. — And  they  don't  say,  "  I  wor- 
ship you !" 

Miss  E. — Often  because  they  have  no 
soul. 

Mrs.  D. — Mr.  Leith  has  an  income. 

Miss  E. — Has  he  a  soul? 

Mrs.  D. — I  never  asked  him.  He  ap- 
preciates Pierre  Loti — and  me ;  so  our 
tastes  are  similar. 

Miss  E. — And  is  he  indefinite? 


52 


Mrs.   D. — Very.     So  am  I. 

Miss  E. — I  am  not. 

Mrs.  D. — No,  dear,  because  you  are 
old-fashioned.  I  dare  to  say  that  be- 
cause I  know  you  will  take  it  as  a  com- 
pliment. Now,  this  afternoon  Mr. 
Leith  is  coming  here  to  ask  me  to  marry 
him,  and  I  am  going  to  be  at  home  in 
order  to  say  yes.  That  sounds  definite 
enough.  But  modern  art  concerns  itself 
with  treatment,  not  with  subject.  And 
the  modern  art  of  love-making  is  very 
subtle.  Mr.  Leith  will  not  squat  down 
on  that  chair  and  talk  humanity  at  me, 
and  I  shall  not  blush  and  wallow  in 
womanliness.  We  shall  have  a  cup  of 
tea,  and  converse  about  literature,  and 
the  last  new  play,  criticism,  pictures, 
and  parties.     And  then,   just  as  he  is 


53 


going,  he  will  launch  his  little  boat  of 
a  proposal  on  the  stream  of  conversa- 
tion, and  let  it  float  toward  me  quite 
carelessly. 

Miss  E. — And  you? 

Mrs.  D. — I  shall  allow  it  to  come  to 
anchor. 

Miss  E. — Then  you  love  him? 

Mrs.  D.  (getting  up  from  her  chair 
and  standing  by  the  fire  with  her  face 
partially  concealed) — I  want  him  to 
launch  his  boat. 

Miss  E.  (watching  her) — It  seems 
to  me  that  modern  love  is  a  melancholy 
sort  of  thing,  a  pilgrim  without  a  staff 
and  cockled  hat,  a  festival  with  no  holly 
and  snap-dragon,  no  geniality  and  good 
fellowship.  I  am  a  spinster,  Maud; 
but,  as  you  know,  I  am  one  because  T 


54 


reverence  an  old  affection,  and  keep  it 
in  my  heart.  Long  ago,  when  I  was 
loved,  it  was  in  very  different  fashion. 

Mrs.  D. — Yet  Andrew  Leith  loves  me 
and  I  him,  only  it  is  in  the  new  way. 

Miss  E. — There's  no  new  way  to  love. 
When  I  leave  you  together  you  will  do 
as  all  the  lovers  have  done  from  time 
immemorial,  show  each  other  your  real 
selves.  Only  you  like  to  keep  on  the 
mask  of  modernity  even  with  me,  your 
old  friend.     I'm  forty-two,  alas! 

Mrs.  D. — No,  it  is  not  a  pose.  Love 
has  changed.  And  to  prove  that  what 
I  say  is  true,  I  will  do  this:  I  will 
allow  you  to  stay  in  this  room,  con- 
cealed, all  the  time  Andrew  is  here. 

Miss  E. — But  it  would  not  be  fair  to 
him. 


55 


Mrs.  D.— Perfectly.  He  will  do  and 
say  nothing  that  is  not  restrained,  light, 
cultured,  and  artistic.  You  will  assist 
at  a  scene  from  Henry  James,  not  at 
one  from,  shall  we  say,  Rhoda  Brough- 
ton.  He  will  imply  his  proposal.  I 
shall  imply  my  acceptance.  The  an- 
nouncement in  the  Mortiing  Post  will 
give  the  definite  touch  that  we  do  not 
care  to  supply.      C  'est  tout. 

Miss  E. — You  make  my  venerable 
blood  run  cold. 

Mrs.  D. — You  will  stay?  I  will  hide 
you  behind  this  portiere.  It  is  hope- 
lessly conventional  to  hide  behind  a 
portiere,  but  it  is  convenient. 

Miss  E. — It  is  generally  convenient 
to  be  conventional.  But  suppose  you 
are  mistaken  in  Mr.  Leith?    If  he  should 


56 


become  ardent  I  should  feel  most  un- 
comfortable. 

Mrs.  D. — So  should  I.  But  there  is  no 
chance  of  that.  He  is  often  witty,  but 
never  ardent. 

Miss  E.  (half  humorously,  half 
sadly) — And  my  old  lover  was  always 
ardent,  but  never  witt}-.  (They  hear 
a  ring  at  the  door-bell,  j 

Mrs.  D. — There  he  is.  Come  to  your 
portiere. 

Miss  E. — I  really  cannot. 

Mrs.  D. — Yes,  I  want  to  convince  you 
that  there  is  a  new  love,  and  that  it  is 
much  neater  and  more  highly  finished 
than  the  old. 

Miss  E.  (holding  up  her  hands  in 
horror) — Neater  and  more  highly  fin- 
ished love ! 


57. 


Mrs.  D. — Yes,  yes.  Come  along 
quickly ! 

Miss  E. — But  if  his  new  love  degen- 
erates into  the  old? 

Mrs.  D. — It  will  not.  We  advance  in 
the  nineteenth  century.  We  do  not  ret- 
rograde. 

Miss  E.  (vanishing  behind  the  por- 
tiere)— I  am  afraid  I  am  retrograding. 

SCENE   II. 

Same  as  before.  Footman  shows  in 
Andrew  Leith. 

Mrs.  D.  (standing) — How  do  you 
do?  I  have  been  reading  "  Pecheur 
d'Islande."  I  always  read  a  page  or 
two  of  it  on  gra}"  days.  It  makes  a 
harmony  of  color.  One's  weather, 
one's  mood,  one's  literature,  should  all 


58 


be  en  suite,  shouldn't  they?  I  once  saw 
a  woman  reading  "  Pickwick"  at  Monte 
Carlo.  I  have  never  been  able  to 
endure  her  since ;  one  might  as  well 
wear  white  shoes  with  a  black  dress. 

A.  L.  (laying  down  his  hat  slowly) 
— Or  a  round  hat  with  a  frock  coat. 

(They  sit  down  by  the  tea-table.) 

A.  L. — Yes,  people  ought  to  be  more 
careful.  A  habit  of  omnivorous  read- 
ing makes  men  and  women  perpetually 
out  of  the  scene.  I  am  very  fond  of 
Dickens  when  I  am  at  Margate. 

Mrs.  D. — And  when  are  you  there? 

A.  L. — Never.  Thank  you,  no  milk. 
I  prefer  a  squeeze  of  lemon. 

Mrs.  D. — I  think  I  must  go  to  Margate 
just  once. 

A.  L. — See  Margate  and  die  I     I  have 


50 


seen  so  many  places  without  dying.  I 
suppose  Naples  and  Margate  must  be 
added  to  the  list  before  I  can  hope  to 
have  earned  the  final  coup  de  grace. 

Mrs.  D. — Do  have  some  muffin.  You 
speak  as  if  you  wanted  to  die. 

A.  L.  (aside) — If  she  only  knew 
how  old-fashioned  and  nervous  I  feel, 
how  she  would  despise  me !  (Aloud) 
I  never  think  about  death.  There  are  so 
many  other  things  to  think  about: 
"  The  Dolly  Dialogues,"  for  instance, 
and  who  will  manage  to  avoid  being 
the  next  Laureate,  and  why  people 
think  they  are  daring  if  they  go  to  a 
music  hall. 

Mrs.  D. — Yes,  life  is  full  of  interest. 

A.  L. — And  of  music  halls.  I  some- 
times feel  inclined  to  avoid  both. 


6o 


Mrs.  D. — From  laziness? 

A.  L. — Suppose  I  said  from  coward- 
ice? 

Mrs.  D. — I  should  not  believe  you. 

A.  L.— It  is  always  difficult  to  believe 
the  truth.  -^  That  is  why  no  one  believes 
in  anything.  We  are  so  surrounded  by 
a  crowd  of  truths  that  we  can  scarcely 
move,  or  fetch  enough  breath  to  utter 
our  painful  and  eternal  parrot  cry,  "  Life 
is  full  of  shams." 

Mrs.  D.  (aside) — This  is  very  unlike 
his  usual  cynicism.  (Aloud)  Yet  reali- 
ties seem  few  and  far  between.  We 
are  very  like  crying  shadows. 

A.  L. — Shadows  that  seem  to  have 
voices,  because  there  is  some  great  ven- 
triloquist somewhere.  I  wish  the  voices 
varied  a  little  more,  though.     They  all 


•GOOD-BY.     MAY  I  TELL  OUR  SECRET  TO— THE 
'MORNING  POST'?"     Puffe  T^. 


63 


say  the  same  thing.  The  only  thing 
that  is  never  monotonous  is  silence. 

Mrs.  D.  (laughing) — Then  why  do 
you  come  here  and  talk  to  me? 

A.  L. — Because  I  enjoy  feeling  that 
if  we  sat  in  silence  we  could  still  be 
friends.  We  speak  because  we  need 
not.  Such  conversation  is  delightful. 
Most  people  talk,  as  the  birds  are  said 
to  sing,  because  they  must.  We  talk 
because  we  can.  There  is  the  differ- 
ence. 

Mrs.  D. — It  is  very  difficult  to  be  si- 
lent. 

A.  L. — So  difficult  that  a  clergyman 
once  talked  to  me  in  church. 

Mrs.  D. — What  did  he  say.^ 

A.  L. — He  said,  "  I  think  it  extremely 
wrong  to  talk  in  church." 


64 


Mrs.  D. — The  story  sums  up  the  vir- 
tue of  most  of  us. 

A.  L. — And  the  vice  of  all  of  us.  We 
all  talk  in  church,  in  order  to  tell  other 
people  that  it  is  wrong. 

Mrs.  D. — When  we  go  there. 

A.  L. — Even  when  we  stay  away.  We 
do^e  very  thing  in  the  spirit  that  we  do  not 
do  in  the  flesh.     Please,  one  cup  more. 

Mrs.  D. — Yes,  it  is  pleasant  doing 
things  in  the  spirit.  (I  hope  that  tea  is 
not  too  strong.)  There  is  less  reaction 
afterward. 

A.  L. — And  more  refinement  before- 
hand. (Aside)  How  long  is  this  sort 
of  thing  to  go  on?  If  only  I  could  read 
just  the  position. 

Mrs.  D.  (aside) — I  wonder  what 
Catherine  thinks  of  the  new  love. 


65 


Miss  E.  (behind  the  portiere) — This 
may  be  new,  but  it  is  not  love. 

A.  L. — I  think  that  refinement  and 
reticence  are  the  greatest  of  the  vir- 
tues. 

Mrs.  D.— So  do  I. 

A.  L. — But  I  wonder  if  they  can  be- 
come too  much  of  a  habit,  and  so  mo- 
notonous? I  believe  everything  ought 
to  be  subject  to  lapses,  if  it  is  to  pre- 
serve its  interest.  Even  a  person  who 
is  always  in  good  health  may  become  a 
bore  for  that  vory  reason.  A  touch  of 
malaise  would  reinstate  him  in  our  good 
graces.     Don't  you  think  so? 

Mrs.  D. — It  depends  rather  on  the  sort 
of  malaise,  I  think. 

A.  L. — There  might  come  a  time 
when  one  would  welcome  even  a  fit,  or 


66 


a  momentary  failure  of  the  heart's  ac- 
tion.     (He  glances  at  her  watchfully.) 

Mrs.  D.  (doubtfully)— Perhaps;  al- 
though failure  of  the  heart's  action 
seems  common  enough  in  modern  life. 

A.  L. — You  agree? 

Mrs.  D. — I  see  what  you  mean. 

A.  L. — And  so  it  might  be  with  a  reti- 
cent person  or  persons — sa}^  a  reticent 
man  and  woman. 

Miss  E.  (behind  the  portiere) — If  he 
retrogrades,  what  am  I  to  do? 

Mrs.  D. — But  if  anything  is  perfectly 
well-bred,  the  reverse  must  be  perfectly 
ill-bred. 

A.  L. — But  are  there  not  moments 
when  virtues  become  vices,  and  vices 
virtues?  Black  is  white  very  often,  al- 
though politicians  say  so,  and  two  and 


67 


two  do  occasionally  make  five  despite 
the  blunder  of  arithmeticians.  Surely, 
surely  it  is  so. 

Mrs.  D. — I  don't  know  if  I  should  like 
a  refined  and  reticent  man  during  his 
lapse. 

A.  L. — Would  you  not  enjoy  the  sense 
of  contrast.^ 

Mrs.  D. — Possibly,  if  it  were  not  too 
violent. 

A.  L, — Might  not  its  very  violence  be 
its  charm? 

Mrs  D. — The  lapse  would  have  to  be 
very  short,  and — very  well  timed. 
(Glances  uneasily  toward  portiere.) 

A.  L.  (putting  down  his  teacup) — 
There  I  agree  with  you.  The  man  who 
knows  how  to  choose  his  time  knows 
how  to  win  his  heaven. 


68 


Mrs.  D. — Are  you  good  at  choosing 
the  times  for  your — lapses? 

A.  L. — Perhaps  I  never  have  any. 

Mrs.  D. — Probably  I  have  never  seen 
one.  I  only  fancied  that  you  formu- 
lated the  doctrine  of  laps-es  because — 
because 

A.  L. — I  was  going  in  for  one  myself. 
What  from? 

Mrs.  D. — How  should  I  know? 

A.  L. — Would  you  care  to  see  the — er 
— healthy  man  in  a  fit? 

Mrs.  D. — I  don't  know.  It  sounds 
rather  alarming.  (Aside)  I  wish  I 
had  let  Catherine  go,  then  I  think  I 
should  have  enjoyed  being  alarmed,  but 
now 

A.  L.  (aside) — No.  she  would  be 
appalled.     We  are  both  so  accustomed 


69 


to  being  inhuman  that  we  had  better 
remain  inhuman  to  the  end.  (Aloud) 
I  suppose  you  would  run  for  the  doctor, 
and  the  fit  would  end  in  the  disaster  of 
being  laid  out  on  the  floor  and  drenched 
with  cold  water? 

Mrs.  D. — Cold  water  is  very  reviving. 

A.  L. — And  very  damping.  But  I 
believe  you  are  right,  Mrs.  Delane. 
Lapses  should  be  avoided  rigorously. 
We  should  choose  our  plane  of  feeling 
and  of  emotion  deliberately,  and  move 
steadfastly  along  it. 

Mrs.  D.  (aside) — I  do  wish  Catherine 
was  not  behind  the  curtain.  He  is  hurt. 
(Aloud)  I  suppose  it  is  better. 

A.  L. — These  lapses  always  mean 
displays  of  feeling,  the  undressing  of 
the  mind  in  public,  which  is  so  indecent 


70 


and  revolting.  Some  day,  no  doubt, 
the  County  Council  will  take  our  minds 
in  hand  as  well  as  our  sewers,  and  we 
shall  be  prevented  by  law  from  losing 
our  tempers  and  our — hearts. 

Mrs.  D. — Such  losses  do  occasion  a 
good  deal  of  confusion,  don't  they?  If 
one  person  loses  a  thing,  at  least  five 
and  twenty  begin  to  try  to  find  it. 
One's  losses  are  made  in  solitude,  one's 
discoveries  in  a  crowd,  envious  and  dis- 
appointed. 

A.  L. — That's  rather  true.  I  should 
like  to  be  original. 

Mrs.  D.— How? 

A.  L. — I  should  like  to  try  to  find 
something  in  solitude. 

(Draws  his  chair  a  little  closer  to 
hers.) 


71 


Mrs.  D.  (aside)— Solitude!  A  soli- 
tude a  trois!  What  a  fool  I  have  been ! 
(Aloud)  But  then  you  would  have  no 
one  to  triumph  over.  And  that  would 
take  the  edge  off  your  discovery. 

A.  L. — I  don't  know.  There  are  dis- 
coveries that  are  so  beautiful  in  them- 
selves that  to  be  alone  with  them  might 
be  perfect  happiness. 

Mrs.  D, — Do  you  think  so?  Colum- 
bus discovered  America,  but  would  he 
have  cared  about  it  if  his  crew  had  not 
been  round  him  to  share  the  supreme 
moment? 

A.  L. — Perhaps  there  ought  to  be  just 
one  person. 

Mrs.  D.  (aside  towards  the  portiere) — 
Certainly,  there  ought  not  to  be  two! 
(Aloud)  You  agree  with  me? 


72 


A.  L,— Generally. 

Mrs.  D. — In  this,  I  mean? 

A.  L. — I  don't  like  the  idea  of  an  en- 
tire crew.  One  lookout  boy  would 
have  been  enough.  We  do  things  for 
ourselves,  and  for  one  other,  perhaps; 
seldom  for  the  whole  world. 

Mrs.  D.  (aside) — Catherine  is  worse 
than  the  whole  world ! 

A.  L. — We  exist  for  the  world,  per- 
haps, but  we  live  for  ourselves,  and 
that  one  other. 

(He  pauses.     She  is  silent.) 

A.  L. — Just  as  we  talk  for  those  whom 
we  do  not  care  about,  and  are  silent  for 
those  whom  we  do. 

Mrs.  D.  (hurriedly) — I  don't  know 
that  I  am. 

A.    L. — No?      (He  stretches   out   his 


73 


hand  and  takes  hers.)  You  know  what 
I  came  here  to  say  to-day? 

Mrs.  D. — I  can  guess. 

A.  L. — You  have  taught  me  how  to 
say  it  or  how  to  consider  it  said.  I  had 
some  idea,  as  I  came  down  Jack  Street 
— and  Jack  Street  is  very  long — of  say- 
ing it  very  differently.  But  you  are 
right. 

Mrs.  D.— Thank  you. 

A.  L. — I  might  have  become  too  defi- 
nite. I  might  have  had  a  lapse  from  the 
usual  into  the  unusual. 

Mrs.  D. — It  would  have  been  a  pity. 

A.  L.  (almost  wistfully) — Somehow 
I  seemed  to  need  it.  Well  (bends  and 
kisses  her  hand),  good-by.  Ma}''  I  tell 
our  secret  to — the  Morni?ig  Post? 

Mrs.  D. — Yes. 


74 


(He  goes  to  the  door,  opens  it,  hesi- 
tates, goes  out.  Mrs.  Delane  stands 
with  her  hands  clasped  tightly  together. 
There  are  tears  in  her  eyes.  Miss  Ends- 
leigh  emerges  from  behind  the  por- 
tiere.) 

Miss  E, — So  that  is  the  new  love, 
Maud?    Well,  it  is  odd.     I  don't  dislike 

it,  but 

(The  door  opens  again,  and  Andrew 
Leith  calls  "Maud!"  Mrs.  Delane 
starts  forward  impulsively,  and  disap- 
pears through  the  door.  As  it  closes 
there  is  the  sound  of  a  kiss.) 

Miss  E.  (sitting  centre) — But  I  like 
the  old  love  best,  after  all.  That  lapse 
was  worth  a  thousand  epigrams. 


The  New  Woman 

BV 

E.  LYNN    LYNTON. 


2mo,   Cloth,  $1  .50. 


! 


"  Mrs.  Linton  has  written  a  novel 
worth  reading,  especially  at  this  time  of 
discussion  regarding  woman's  place  in 
public  life.  It  is  an  extravaganza,  but 
then  some  truths  cannot  be  impressed  by 
others  than  extremists.  When  once  the 
'  Advanced  Woman  '  of  America  shall 
have  taken  up  '  The  New  Woman,'  it 
will  be  likely  to  create  much  discussion." 
— Mail  and  Express. 


For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be 
sent  postpaid  upon  receipt  of  price,  by 

THE  MERRIAM  COMPANY 

Publishers 
and  Booksellers, 
67  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


gPISODES 


-••• 


— :  p.v  :— 

STREET, 


Author  of  "  The  Autobiography  of  a  Boy." 

i6mo,  oblong,  cloth,  gilt  top,  75  cents. 


(W, 


These  sketches  of  London  life  are 
written  in  such  a  crisp,  breezy  manner 
that  they  cannot  fail  to  find  a  ready 
welcome  from  all  lovers  of  light  reading. 


"  This  is  strong,  bold,  realistic  art. 
It  may  not  be  entirely  and  at  first  un- 
derstood, it  may  not  be  entirely  liked 
when  it  is  understood,  but  it  is  cer- 
tainly original  and  virile." 

— Brooklyn  Times. 


For  Sale  at  all  Bookstores,  or  bv 

THE   MERRiAM    COMPANY, 

Publishers  and  Booksellers, 
67  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


THE 


Old  Post  Road. 


By  M.  G.  McClelland.    Photogravure  frontispiece. 
16mo,  oblong,  cloth,  gilt  top,    ...    75  Cents. 


It  is  a  charming  little  tale  of  the  early 
days  of  Maryland,  when  stage  coaches 
rolled  over  the  "old  post  road,"  and  high- 
way robbers  were  abroad.  Jasper  was  one 
of  them,  but  he  was  a  jolly  young  fellow, 
that  the  reader  feels  a  deep  interest  in. 
Hilary,  his  sweetheart,  did  not  know  of  his 
crimes,  and  when  she  learned  them  it  al- 
most broke  her  heart.  Jasper  went  to 
Texas  and  died  in  the  revolutionary  wars 
there.  The  reader  will  derive  unalloyed 
pleasure,  both  from  the  tale  and  from  the 
delightful  way  in  which  it  is  told. 


For  sale  by  all  Booksellers,  or  will  be 
sent  post-paid  upon  receipt  of  price  by 


The  Merrim  GoMPiiNY, 


PUBLISHERS    AND 

BOOKSELLCF 


67  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York. 


Reautiful  Thoughts 

on  Life  Eternal. 


COMPILED  AND  ARRANGED  BY 


i6mo,  Oblong,  Cloth,  75  cents. 


The  subject  of  this  little  book  is  one 
which  all  thoughtful  minds  will  wel- 
come. These  thoughts  from  great  and 
noble  minds  may  help  some  bereaved 
one  to  discern  a  ray  of  sunshine  from 
the  unseen. 


FOR   SALE  BY  ALL    BOOKSELLERS,  OR    WILL    BE 
SENT    POSTPAID     UPON     RECEIPT    OF    PRICE    BY 

The  merriam  company 

Publishers  and  Booksellers, 

67  Fifth  Ave.,  New  York. 


BILLTRY 


up; 


A  PARODY  ON  "TRILBY" 

:  BY  : 


Illustrated,  izmo.  Cloth,  $i.oo. 
Paper,  50  cents. 


"  Mrs.  Dallas  has  written  one  of  the  clever- 
est parodies  in  '  Billtry'  that  has  ever  been 
published." —  World. 

"'Billtry'  is  a  pretty  smart  bit  of  bur- 
lesquing. The  scheme  is  to  topsy-turvyize  Du 
Maurier's  story,  and  topsy-turvyized  it  is  most 
effectually.  The  illustrations  are  very  clever 
imitations  of  Mr.  Du  Maurier's  style." — Mail 
and  Express. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  will  be 
sent  postpaid  upon  receipt  of  price  by 

THE  Merriam  company 

Publishers  and  Booksellers, 
67  FIFTH  AVENUE NEW  YORK. 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DA 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


B     000  024  230     5 


